A cold wintry, wet morning. One of the hard things about farming is that one is always on duty. On a dairy farm, at any rate, if the women of the family take charge and assist through the week, they must bare the yoke on Sundays also. For reasons which need not be mentioned here, I have not been inside a church door for quite a long time, and this enforced abstinence from public worship is useful in teaching one just exactly how much it is worth and how much one loses.
Apart from the question of spiritual benefit, the weekly meetings with one’s fellows, and the change of scene and thought count for a great deal. In her latter days, George Eliot was not a Christian believer, but she says that she liked to go to church sometimes to enjoy the feeling of worshipping with the multitude. She felt that “it was good to be here” whether or no she accepted any of the dogmas of the preacher.
Sundays in the primrose season are times of trial to me. We have one of the most beautiful primrose haunts in the neighbourhood, and I would fain have its beauty undisturbed. All are welcome to admire, but it hurts me cruelly to see the place despoiled and trodden underfoot, as it is every year.
Last night, there were hundreds of flowers cut. Tonight, when I walk along there will not be one. The elms are very pretty now, with little knobs on their slender branches. I pulled one that hung low, and the tiny blossoms were half of them opened. In a week or two, the elm trees will be still prettier with the innumerable fluttering bunches of seeds. The ash trees look very knobbly and picturesque but their flower buds are swelling very slowly.